To Begin Again: A New Catalpa Creek Story

By Janet Stobie

Anchored in faith, spiced with romance, mystery, and history, "To Begin Again" is an intriguing story that will keep the reader turning the pages.
"To Begin Again" tells the story of widower, Steve Grenville and his teenaged daughter, Renée, as they build their new family of two after the death of wife and mother, Serena, nearly three years before. Steve’s readiness for a new relationship threatens to topple Renée’s fragile security. Will she lose her father’s love to this woman?
Researching her school history project, Renée discovers a tiny book with faded writing: a diary, kept by her great-great-grandmother, Margaret Sinclair, “Nana,” a British child immigrant. Connecting Nana’s life with immigrants today takes on an immediate relevance when a Syrian Refugee family arrives in Catalpa Creek. Tension mounts. Prejudice and fear surface and turn to violence.
Nana Sinclair's story is based on the early life of author, Janet Stobie's grandmother. As such the diary portion of this novel is classed as creative non-fiction.
"To Begin Again" will nudge you to think deeply about acceptance, discrimination and your faith. Introducing many current issues, "To Begin Again" is an excellent book club choice. Included are questions for group discussion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Janet Stobie
• Release date: May 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781775293811

Janet Stobie

REV. JANET STOBIE B.A., M.Ed., M.Div. A writer, storyteller, family counselor and ordained minister, Janet Stobie loves sharing her faith through storytelling. She served with Bethany, Pontypool and Dunsford United Churches in Ontario from 1989 until 2008, when she retired to focus on her writing and her family. Janet writes a weekly devotional column for the Millbrook Times and is welcomed as a storyteller at fundraisers, group meetings and Sunday morning church services. Her books can be purchased online at www.janetstobie.com Janet has written five books A Child Speaks: Hear the Wisdom of the Children of the Bible - A short story collection that offers a new biblical perspective. Can I Hold Him? Christmas Stories for All Ages - Short stories that bring renewed meaning to Christmas. Spectacular Stella – The Story of the Christmas Star- Ages 3-8 teaching self-acceptance. A Place Called Home: Homeless? Who Me? Ages 7-10 offering a new face to homelessness FIREWEED - Mystery for youth and adults - teaches grief strategies as well as interfaith dialogue as one road to peace.

Book preview

Praise for

To Begin Again

Janet Stobie has built an inspiring beauty into this story of a Canadian teenage girl’s life and tells it with a consummate poetry, spirituality and rhythm. This is a substantial narrative dealing honestly and in depth with current, complex matters of concern to us all: immigration, cultural difference, our fear of terrorism, suicide, friendship, love and redemption.

It does so by tracing and comparing lives parallel to that of the Canadian teenager. One is her great-great-grandmother who was a Barnardo child; the other, that of a contemporary refugee family. A deep understanding of both emerges.

Janet Stobie’s sensitive story offers the reader clear insights into the roots for and relationships between Judaism, Christianity and Islam; into the intimate and inner feelings of an orphan teenager; a young, widowed father seeking to re-build his life; and into the diverse reactions and behaviours of their friends and the community at large. These matters are addressed under the guiding love of God.

This deeply-felt story is current, educational, and written in a brave, honest, and constructive way. I warmly recommend it for teenagers as well as adults who seek inspiration and fulfillment.

~ Viviana Galleno, professor, Faculty of Business and Law, The Open University, U.K.

To Begin Again is the much anticipated, heart-warming continuation of Renee's and Steve's stories and more. Writing with sensitivity, humour and courage, Jan has interwoven themes of friendship, prejudice, grief, and romance.

Steve and Renee’s belief in a loving, guiding God makes it possible for them To Begin Again.

Storyteller Jan has gifted us with another wonderful, faith confirming, thought provoking, enjoyable read.

~ Diane Claridge, retired teacher.

A heartfelt novel, To Begin Again chronicles the life of Steve and Renee as they continue to deal with the sudden death of their wife and mother even after three years. This book is an honest, open-hearted account of a father and daughter struggling to build a new life after tragedy. Especially engaging are life's always-changing challenges. It is good to see the values of care and compassion in the midst of this troubled world. Issues addressed in the story are timely and timeless. I would highly recommend it to all who are searching for hope.

~ Nancy Miller, Editorial Assistant (Retired), Roussan Publishing.

To Begin Again:

A Catalpa Creek Story

Janet Stobie

Other Books by Janet Stobie

Books for Children

A Place Called Home/ Homeless? Who Me?

Spectacular Stella

Elizabeth Gets Her Wings

Short Stories for All Ages

A Child Speaks

Can I Hold Him? (Christmas Stories)

Novels

Fireweed

Worship Resource

Dipping Your Toes in Planning Small Group Devotions

Copyright © 2018 by Janet Stobie

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means – electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, internet or other – except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the copyright holder. For permission requests write to the publisher.

Child’s Play Productions

853 Abbey Lane

Peterborough, Ontario K9H 7T1

This is a work of fiction. Characters and events are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Scripture taken from the HOLY BIBLE, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION (registered trademark). Copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan.

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-7752938-0-4

Ordering Information – Special Discounts are available for large quantity orders by corporations, associations and others.

For details contact [e-mail]

Editor: Ruth Walker www.writescape.ca

Graphic Art Work: Cover and Interior Layout by Sue Reynolds, www.piquantproductions.ca

E-book formatting by Maureen Cutajar, www.gopublished.com

Visit www.janetstobie.com

Dedication

This story is dedicated to all the people everywhere, who are doing their best to live God’s call to love and accept our neighbours, regardless of race, sexual orientation, faith, or economic status.

These ordinary people are God’s blessing for us all.

Through them we catch glimpses of the world as it can be.

Through them, God gives us hope and strength To Begin Again.

And to the Harrars of this world, who feel so alone and without hope. Stay strong in the knowledge, that you are God’s beloved child. Your life is precious. Open your heart to the hope that God offers us all.

Contents

1: A Chance Encounter

2: Attic Treasures

3: Our New Friends

4: Hotheads

5: SS Dominion

6: The Fundraiser

7: Risky

8: Settling In

9: Strong Women

10: Friendship

11: Jade’s Wisdom

12: Woman Trouble

13: New Life Begins

14: Taking Risks

15: Trouble Erupts

16: We Respond

17: Joy & Tragedy

18: A Very Long Day

19: Nana’s First Job

20: Connecting

21: Nana Sinclair – A Life of Terror?

22: Storytelling

23: In the Dark

24: Invitations

25: Freedom

26: The Ahmadi’s Story Part 2

27: New Traditions

28: Surprises

29: I Don’t Believe It

30: Party Time

31: It’s Time

The foreigner residing among you

must be treated as your native-born.

Love them as yourself,

for you were foreigners in Egypt.

I am the Lord your God.

(Leviticus 19:34 NIV)

Chapter One

A Chance Encounter

Sunday, September 17

Steve

I jerked awake. A fly buzzed across the ceiling. I yanked the blankets over my head. The buzzing continued. Too hot. I pulled the blankets off. The bloody fly tickled my bare arm. Enough!!! Wide awake now, I hauled my body out of bed. Eight flashed on my clock radio. Too early. Church isn’t 'til ten. I groaned and pulled on my robe. The fly made another pass. Swatter’s in the kitchen, of course. I sighed and trudged into the hallway, gladly leaving the fly behind.

Downstairs on the kitchen counter, a package of thawed blueberries waited, purple-blue oozing down the cupboard door. Right, pancakes. I promised Renée pancakes. I grabbed the dishcloth. A few swipes and the mess was gone.

Ten minutes later, the pancake batter ready, I called up the stairs, Renée, time to get up. No answer. I yelled this time. Still nothing. I ran up the stairs and knocked on her bedroom door. Pancakes in fifteen. Still no response. I opened the door. Her cat, Ebony, looked up at me from an empty pile of blankets.

I checked the bathroom. Empty. Chill out, Steve. She’s seventeen. She’s an early riser. Probably gone for a walk.

I returned to the kitchen. Her baseball hat, jacket and rubber boots were not at the back door. I looked out the window towards the creek. No canoe. My stomach tightened. I wish she wouldn’t just buzz off without a word.

I started cooking pancakes. Each time I added to the stack in the oven, my frustration mounted. The last pancake was bubbling in the pan when I saw her pull up to the dock. She had a frown on her face as she strode towards the house. What’s that about, I wondered.

Her cheeks flushed from exertion, she opened the back door. "Glad you’re up. Mmmm, those pancakes smell good."

I took a deep breath. Thanks for the note you didn’t leave me. Hope you had a good time.

Ignoring my sarcasm, she answered, It’s a beautiful morning. Quite warm in the sunshine and quiet, sooooooo quiet.

Renée, you snuck out!

Oh, Dad, take it easy. I didn’t sneak anywhere. I just went for a morning paddle on the creek.

Don’t tell me to take it easy. You—

I’m seventeen. I can leave the house without your permission.

That’s not the point. What if the canoe capsized or something? I didn’t know where you were.

I had my cell phone. I can call.

Not if you lose it in the muddy creek bottom.

She gave me the look I'd seen a lot of lately. Dad, don’t be an idiot. A year from now, I’ll be at university. You won’t know where I am or what I’m doing.

A year from now doesn’t matter. While you’re living at home, you’re my responsibility.

Come on. Allow me a little independence.

I clenched my teeth and started again. Renée, you need to learn to be considerate of others. You could have left a note.

Okay, Okay. I didn’t. So, don’t make such a big deal. Next time I will.

The smell of burning pancake assaulted my nose. Damn, I said, and moved the griddle over as I flipped off the burner switch. When I turned back to Renée, her nose was wrinkled up in distaste, too.

She smiled. I love you, she said.

My anger wilted. I took a deep breath. Love you too.

She reached out for a hug. As I held her close, I thought, I can’t see over your head. You’re not a little girl anymore. Next year you’ll be gone. This house will be empty.

"Put that stinky pancake in the garbage. Let’s eat the rest.

I’m hungry," she said as she pulled away.

We settled at the kitchen island, pancakes swimming in maple syrup. Within minutes, we had cleared the whole stack.

Renée pushed back her stool. Thanks, that was good. I got some fantastic pictures this morning. Want to see them? She picked up her camera, pulled out the SD card and set it on the counter. Just a minute, I’ll get my computer. They’ll look so much better on the bigger screen. With a flip of her long black ponytail, she disappeared.

I buried my lingering frustration while I cleared and rinsed the sticky dishes, stowing them in the dishwasher.

In just a few minutes she was back, her computer set up. Beautiful, I said, as a picture of the morning mist rising from the creek appeared. She pointed to the centre of the screen.

See the duck family swimming towards me through the mist, the little ones almost fully grown. They look magical.

Great picture.

Look at this video I took of our frequent shoreline visitor. I’ve named him Corny Crane. When I spotted him this morning, he was a one-legged statue, staring at the water. I turned on the video just as his neck snaked out and snapped up a fish. I’ll break this into frames. I’m sure there will be some spectacular action shots.

Her excitement reminded me of Serena’s enthusiasm and joy. You’re already a gifted photographer, Renée. Someday you’ll be famous.

Or not, she said. This may just be a hobby. I’m not sure what I want to do. I like to write. I love history. Maybe I’ll be an archaeologist. There’s so much choice. All I know is that I don’t want to work with numbers. She shrugged and half-smiled at me. Sorry.

That’s okay. You don’t have to be an accountant. You’re not me and that’s good. You’ll figure it out.

Will I? Sometimes I wonder.

Take your time. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. I glanced at the clock. We best get ready for church. I’ve got a meeting before the service.

She left to shower. I stood at the window, staring out at the creek. Why such a huge reaction? A gust of wind banged the canoe against the dock. I flinched. My mind went to Serena. She was late getting home that night. Once again that policeman stood in the hallway. Is Serena Rushton your wife? There’s been an accident, head-on collision. I’m sorry sir, she died instantly.

I gave myself a shake. That was more than two years ago. It won’t happen again.

Renée

Susie met us at the church door, her curly blonde hair loose from its customary ponytail. I smiled and thought, my best friend may be small but she’s mighty. We’re sure different. I’m tall and willowy and she’s short and curvy. Just proof God loves variety. Hey, Renée, want to go to Jake’s while our dads are at the meeting?

Definitely. Let’s go. As soon as we hit the street, I said, I sure had a creepy experience this morning.

What happened?

I woke up way early and decided to take the canoe down the creek. I needed some pictures for my art project.

You were canoeing already this morning? Really?

Yes, really! Not everyone’s a sleepyhead like you. Anyway, I found this neat spot. A tall willow tree had spread its branches out over the creek like a giant hand. My canoe slid easily through the curtain of branches into what felt like a secret hideaway. I reached out and gripped Susie’s arm. You’ll never guess who was sitting there. He'd built a campfire right on the riverbank. We stopped walking. She stared up at me in anticipation

Who?

Russell Carding, the kid who stalked me two years ago. He stood up when he saw me. He’s huge now, like a gorilla.

What’d you do?

I back-paddled out of there as fast as I could. He yelled, ‘Stop,’ but I didn’t. I turned and tore for home. Look! I’ve got three blisters on my hands from paddling so hard. I held out my hands, one blister had broken and was bleeding a little.

Renée, that’s more than creepy. That’s frightening. What did your dad say when you told him?

I didn’t.

What? You didn't say anything?

No. He was already upset. He’d wakened early and couldn’t find me. His imagination was working overtime. When I got back, he started right in about how I didn’t leave a note. If I’d mentioned meeting Russell, he’d have exploded.

Renée, I think you should have told your dad. You know Russell is dangerous.

Well, I didn’t. It was just a chance encounter. That’s all. I started walking again. Hoping to distract Susie, I pointed to Richardson’s jewellery store window and said, Isn’t that the necklace Rachel wore to the dance last week? The price tag says $145.

Susie wasn’t deterred. Renée, I’m worried about Russell Carding. What’s he doing in Catalpa Creek anyway? I thought he moved away once his probation was served.

I don’t know, and I don’t care. He’s just weird, and besides, he wasn’t stalking me. I surprised him.

Tell your dad, Renée.

Give it up, Susie. Let’s not ruin our whole time talking about Russell. I looked across the street. There’s Harrar. Hey, Harrar, we’re going to Jake’s for coffee and doughnuts. Want to join us?

Gosh, he’s gorgeous, Susie said, as he loped across the street. Yes, and tall like Dad, and so… sweet, a good friend.

Friend? Susie reacted.

Harrar joined us, and I didn’t have to respond.

Hey! How’s it going? he asked, his cheeks dimpled with his huge smile.

Hey, yourself. What’s up this morning? I asked. Just out and about. Why aren’t you two at church?

Not until eleven. Our dads had a meeting first, Susie said. We skipped out.

Perfect, he answered.

At Jake’s, Harrar opened the door and waved us through.

I looked up into his eyes as I walked past. Do you have plans for this afternoon? I got some neat pictures this morning. You might like to use one for inspiration.

He let the door swing shut behind him, his smile fading. Sorry. I’m loaded with homework. His gaze shifted to the ceiling. Could you put them on a flash drive?

Disappointed, I answered, Sure. What’s with him?

Before I could say anything more, Susie said, Some of our crowd’s over in the corner. Let’s join them.

Chapter Two

Attic Treasures

Monday, September 18

Renée

After school Monday, I stopped by Dad’s office. Totally immersed in his paperwork, he didn’t look up when I stepped through the door, giving me a moment to really look at him. My friends think he’s a hunk. Well, I suppose he is kind of cute, with that salt and pepper grey hair, and that dimple that dances when he smiles. He rubbed his forehead as if it hurt. He must have felt me looking at him, for he raised his head.

Hey, Dad! How’s it goin’?

A smile broke through the worry lines on his face. Busy. How about you? He came over for a hug and immediately returned to his chair.

I followed and balanced on the edge of his desk. Ms. Thompson assigned a whole term history project. I hate those things. It’ll bug me for the entire semester.

What’s the topic?

I felt like snarling at him, Didn’t you hear me? I’m worried about this stupid assignment. I need you to hear my feelings, not ask what’s the topic. I knew that would just start a fight. I took a deep breath and answered civilly, We’re supposed to research the life and times of one of our ancestors and connect what we learn with today.

He leaned back in his chair. Any ideas yet who you’ll pick?

Okay, I thought. I can do this. Mom used to talk about Nana Sinclair, her great-great-grandma.

As always, a shadow flickered across Dad’s face when I mentioned Mom. Why her?

Nana Sinclair emigrated from England as a young child. Her life might compare with immigrants today—maybe the Syrian refugees.

Sounds good.

"That’s it? Sounds good? What about brilliant, because it is.

It’s actually brilliant."

He reached around me for a folder from his desk. He wasn’t listening. His mind had returned to his work.

Determined to keep his attention, I grabbed the folder. Any ideas where I’d get some info on Nana Sinclair?

He sighed and leaned back again. Let’s see. Text your Aunt Sharon. She’s into all that genealogy stuff. Knowing Sharon, she’ll probably have a whole file on Nana Sinclair. He paused for a moment, grabbed a pen and began tapping it against his hand. What about Grandma Rushton’s trunk? She might have kept info on her Nana. It’s in the attic. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. I lost the entire morning at a committee meeting about the town’s search for a new doctor.

I winced. Now you’re losing half the afternoon talking to me.

He frowned.

What if Ms. Hamilton phoned? You’d have time for her. My swinging feet hit the desk hard. He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. Deliberately, he shoved the cap onto his pen and stuck it in his breast pocket.

Now Renée, be reasonable.

Well it’s true…

He opened his mouth to speak, then clamped it shut. Looking at the folder in my hand, he heaved a big sigh. Peace…please.

I’m sorry. It’s just that I feel as if you have time for everyone but me.

I’m sorry, too.

He took the folder from me and laid it on the desk, putting his paperweight on top of it. Leaning back in the chair again, he said, I am interested in your project.

Well, do you have any info about refugee kids? That might be relevant.

"Our refugee family coming to Catalpa Creek has three children, the oldest, a boy, is 17.

Really… This is new information. I dumped my anger for the moment. Maybe I could join your committee for some firsthand experience. I’ll bet Susie would, too.

Dad laughed. His eyes sparkled. If you girls think you have time, you’d be welcome.

Right…I’ll discuss it with Susie. I slipped down off the desk. What time will you be home for supper?

Don’t worry about supper. We’ll just heat up last night’s leftovers.

At the door, I turned around to say goodbye. Dad’s attention had already returned to his papers.

When I got home, Ebony was curled up on the mat at the door waiting for me. Kicking my shoes into the hall closet, I picked him up and cuddled him close. Love ya, buddy. We headed for the kitchen. I poured myself a large glass of milk and bit into a granola bar. Ebony stretched out his neck for my milk. I lifted his head away. Yes, you can have some too, my friend. His tongue started lapping with the first drops of milk hitting his dish.

Halfway up the stairs I stopped at the picture of Mom and me, hanging in our rogues’ gallery on the wall. Miss you, Mom. Dad’s so busy with work. Wish you were here to help me with Nana Sinclair. Ebony nudged at my leg. Okay, okay, buddy. I climbed the last few steps to my bedroom.

Comfortable in my old pyjama pants and sweatshirt, my hair wound into a knot, I was ready to face the dusty attic. C’mon Ebony. Let’s go. We’re going to your birthplace.

Cool, dank air engulfed me as I yanked open the attic door. A quick tug on the cord of the single light bulb produced an eerie glow that didn’t quite reach the corners of the room. I scooped up Ebony onto my shoulder. I’ll never forget finding your whole family up here, that fall after Mom died. I cuddled him into my neck. You gave me a reason to go on living. It felt like God sent you just for me.

I peered ahead. Partially hidden by a barrier of boxes and junk, Grandma Rushton’s Tibetan trunk rested, forgotten in the shadows. Setting Ebony down, I cleared a path. My body scrunched to avoid hitting the rafters, I crab-walked across to the trunk and knelt down on the rough floor boards. Ooooh chilly.

Grandma Rushton’s gravelly voice spoke clearly in my mind as my fingers traced the delicate forms of the fearsome dragons carved on the sides. This lovely old trunk is one of my most precious possessions, Renée. Your Uncle David and Aunt Joanne brought it from China before you were born. Their visit was a last-minute surprise. Just before the service on Christmas Eve, they appeared at my church study door. I hugged David so hard, I’m sure he was embarrassed. Tears of joy were still streaming down my cheeks when I started the service. Family is so precious, Renée. Never forget that.

The scratch, scratch of branches against the roof woke me from my reverie. I shook myself. Enough of Grandma Rushton. It’s Nana Sinclair I’m researching. I reached out and pulled the bronze spike from the trunk’s hasp. The alien sound of the metal’s scrape echoed eerily in the attic’s gloom. What will I find?

Books—Christmas books filled one whole side of the trunk. I remember these. Someday I’ll reread them. I loved them when I was little. On the other side lay a stack of boxes, the top one labelled, Income tax records. Not interesting. I laid it on the floor. Next, Adoption. I knew what was in that box. Mom had brought it down after Grandma’s funeral. We spent hours looking at the official papers and talking about Grandma. I laid Adoption down beside Income tax.

I recognized the larger white box yellowed with age. Even though I knew what it contained, I opened the box. Carefully I lifted out the baby clothes—one tiny white embroidered dress and a yellow woollen coat with matching bonnet. Pinned to the bonnet was the note: Clothes I wore the day my parents brought me home. August 8, 1945, signed Eloise Rushton. I shook my head. Grandma you must have been so hot wearing this in August. Lovingly,